


Ice Cream in the Sun

by flappergirlsfolly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Soldiers, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2279649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flappergirlsfolly/pseuds/flappergirlsfolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.” she had replied.</p>
<p>All he’d done was stretch out his hand and take hers. </p>
<p>“I’ll be there. You know. If you are.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice Cream in the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to get into Ygritte's head for once. Hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think.

_‘Flight 569 from West Berlin arriving. Flight 569 from West Berlin arriving.’_

 

 

The cool, repetitive drone of the woman’s voice bounded through the bustling room, fat cats in suits jostling her with their briefcases and children squalling over the din. She loitered, lost in the chaos for a moment, uncertain how to face these shouting lunatics and with their long coats and the women, whose hair towered above her like thick, lacquered helmets.

A stunning woman in silk trousers and a fur coat with trailing silver hair strode purposely past her, the camera around her neck glinting silver around the brown leather. Ygritte stared in awe as she passed.

Through the crowd, a bustle of young men laughed, and her heart leaped at the sight of their dull green uniforms, but they continued trotting their way through the departures gate.

“Fucking hell…” she muttered, elbowing some jerk out of the way. He looked down at her from his conversation with another neatly groomed suit and glared stiffly. She pulled a face back at him and strode away as purposefully as she could.

“Hey!” she cried, running up to a young man with a guitar strapped to his back. He turned and grinned as she gestured to his Joe Cocker shirt. “Right on. D’you know how I find a flight? I’m meeting someone.”

As he directed her to the board with flashing numbers and letters, the little plastic words twirling around to form new ones, an uppity family of redheads bustled past, the woman in the linen skirt suit shooting her a look filled with disapproval. Ygritte glanced down at the stretch of skin between the hem of her dress and the start of her boots, and returned the stare merrily, flipping her crocheted shawl over her other shoulder and flashing that dumb peace sign at her. The lady pursed her lips and guided her kids away from her.

“You copacetic?”

“It’s a swarm of suits in here.”

“Take it you don’t come to these places much?” the musician asked, with a laugh as he led the way to the right gate.

“First time.” She admitted, grudgingly. “Hate it. Too imperialist.”

“Must be a special fella then, eh?” She raised her brows at him, and he shrugged. “This is your stop. Seeya round, sister.”

It was slightly less busy here, and she managed to find a chair easily enough (she spotted the family from earlier nearby, though the woman mustn’t have noticed her because the kids were running free range, with the risk of catching dirty hippy) but found that she couldn’t sit still.

The past months had been really shit. She kept hearing him laughing, expecting him to come out from the other room of her flat at her call, feeling his hands brushing the skin of his waist.

Mance and Tormund kept hinting that she should ‘be with one of her own’, but even they liked him well enough. (She’d deny it if he asked, but she knew now that she fancied him well enough, too.)

Ignoring the throbbing pain the plaited leather cord was suddenly inflicting around her forehead, she hurled herself to her feet, and went to find somewhere to stand, pulling the battered photo booth picture from her pocket. He was so beautiful…

 

 

_“Will you be here when I get back?”_ he’d asked, the weight of his letter heavy in her hands. The words seemed to whisper through the loud rumble of the crowd, and she shivered.

The curves of her palm tingled with anticipation, the feeling of his curls beneath them sinking hooks into her yearning.

“He’s a soldier, honey.” Tormund had told her, as he lashed the knife over the sharpening stone “A soldier with a rich daddy and a posh family. You’re a big girl, you’re old enough to be having a bit of fun, but he’s not for you” She had collapsed her posture on the bench stool and kicked her counter lightly, letting it twirl her around and around, watching with apathy as her uncle began sliding the rotisserie chickens off the spit.

“What if I don’t care?” she asked, after a moment. He had rolled his eyes and leaned over the counter, the knife clamped against the Formica top.

“You want him or you want him inside you. Make up your mind.”

In the blink of an eye, they were in her tiny apartment again, his khakis bathed in sunlight of the window, the letter crumpled in her palm.

“Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.” she had replied.

All he’d done was stretch out his hand and take hers.

“I’ll be there. You know. If you are.”

 

_‘Flight 712 from Arizona connection Vietnam arriving. Flight 712 from Arizona connection Vietnam arriving.’_

She pushed herself off the pillar and towards the door, waiting with the bustling family members and chauffeurs and loved ones as old ladies with dogs in their purses and officers in their dress uniforms began slowly emerging through the doors. The family was there again, the father waiting a few bodies to her right while the mother and kids stayed out of the bustle.

“Come on, Jon Snow. Come on…” she muttered.

And then there he was.

His curls were cropped, but they would be back, the hacks of Uncle Sam’s scissors severing everything either side of his head. His walk was more purposeful, less of the carefree stride of youth, and something in his face seemed hardened- not the sharp shields of anger and regret that has flown to rise when he thought of the family that had exiled him for shame. He was flesh and bone masonry of horror and bloodshed. She had thought that handing out leaflets and marching with placards would bring the boy who blushed like a maiden back to her, but clearly, she had been too late.

She tried to run to him, to call out and fly into his arms, but she was frozen in the jostling crowd. She watched, transfixed, as he stopped- before grinning and embracing the father of the family who… oh.

The youngest girl- Arya, it was Arya, who let out an ear splitting shriek and pulled away from her mother, running towards him as he knelt with outstretched arms, whirling her into the air when she reached him. The smile on his face was one they had shared dancing in their underwear in the kitchen, beneath the billowing white sheets on a warm summer’s night. She watched, feeling herself soften like ice cream sitting in the sun as he placed his sister on the ground and took her hand, hurrying to their other siblings.

She was screaming at herself, begging and pleading to call out to him, and for the first time since that day in her apartment, she began to wonder if she had been nothing but a rebellious phase to him, a fling with a dangerous girl to make his stepmother mad.

_‘If we die, we die,’_ she had whispered, _‘but first we’ll live’._

_‘Yes’_ , he had replied, _‘first we’ll live’._

“Jon!”

It was as easy as that. At her shout, he looked up from his eldest brother’s rapidly chattering mouth, as she elbowed her way mercilessly through the busy crowd. They paused, as the kitbag dropped from his shoulder and her knees almost gave way from the exhilarating terror, before they were colliding together in the middle of the room.

His hands were firm on her back, arms warm and firmer than she had last known, pulling her to him as she hooked her knees around his hips and buried her face in his neck.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” He muttered, his fingers grasping desperately at the flowing stands of fiery hair that was falling down her back.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.” She replied, tears sliding unbidden down her face and pooling in his throat.

They pulled away, ignoring the disapproving looks of the blue nosers around them as she buried her fingers in his hair.

“I’m yours,” she whispered. “And you’re mine.”

“Yes.” He replied. “You’re mine, and I’m yours.”

Disappointment coursed through her as he dropped her to her feet, but suddenly she swung back, her head dipping low as he leaned down to kiss her like Clark Gable kissed Vivien Leigh, but this was Jon Snow, all Jon Snow, whose face was burning as red as the first time they had fucked because his family was staring in horrified awe.

* * *

Daenerys Targeryen, an influential ‘equality fusion’ journalist from one of those old railroad families made her debut into the art world with her most famous photograph of a hippy and a U.S. soldier locked in a Hollywood kiss in the middle of an airport. Neither of the families of the pictured couple were happy with the union, but the picture hung above the mantelpiece in their various apartments for the next sixty years.


End file.
